Pages

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

I caught the tail end (the butt end?) of a discussion on twitter yesterday about how to introduce anal sex into a couple's repertoire. While I've been a self-proclaimed anal slut for years now, and am perfectly comfortable with the label, I do remember back when I was first getting started and facing the same fears and anxieties other women are still facing today. So these are my little bits of wisdom, many of which I wish someone had told me. I now pass them on to you lovely readers.
(The pictures, however, are probably completely unnecessary. I just love looking at them.)

1. When it comes to anal sex, the first barrier that must be broken down is the psychological one. If a woman is squeamish about things going into her ass, or even touching her asshole, she is going to have a hard time picturing herself enjoying anal sex.

Possible solutions: get some porn videos that include a lot of anal--the ones that focus on anal sex will usually give a hint to that fact in the title. There are even porn videos out there that work like a "how to" guide for anal sex. Watch them as a couple, together. Talk about them.
The guy should be very verbal about how much the idea of putting things (not just cock) into his lovely woman's ass turns him on. He should also tell her, over and over, how much he loves her asshole in general, how much it excites him, how he sees it as something sexy, provocative, and adorable. A woman sees her asshole as something dirty; he must get her to see it his way.
Once a woman is open to the idea of something, anything, going into her ass as part of sexual play, with the right mindset and enough time the rest will happen on its own. But remember: once you claim the privilege of filling the asshole, you must also take on the responsibility of keeping it safe and feeling good!

2. The asshole is not like a pussy: it is naturally dry, and stays dry. In any kind of sex, dryness can lead to pain, and small tears in the skin; not sexy, and not what you want for that cute, adorable asshole you want to violate.
Solution: LUBE. The lube must be coated liberally on whatever is about to be pressed into the asshole. In addition, it also helps if lube can be inserted into and around the asshole directly; a finger does this job nicely. Be gentle!

3. The asshole does not stretch as fast as a pussy. The skin is more fragile and tight.
Solution: stretch it slowly. The tightest part of the asshole is the internal sphincter itself; once you are past that, smooth toys will slip through easily. In fact, the body's natural reaction is to suck things in! Start with a pencil-thin anal toy, then gradually get wider. What's important here is not length, it's width; so don't bother getting a toy that's 7-9 inches long, because it won't make a difference. All that matters is dilating that internal ring of muscle. And again, lube is important. The asshole will stretch much faster if you're using enough lube. But once a toy feels comfortably in place, there's no point leaving it; you might as well take a break, or move on to a bigger size. No point leaving it in for hours at a time. In fact, if the lube gets absorbed naturally by the tissues, the toy will begin to hurt, and you won't understand why and will frighten yourself for no reason.

4. The asshole is more sensitive than the pussy. Note: I don't know if this is true for all women. I do think it's true for most anal sluts. Pain is more pronounced, but then again, so is pleasure. Every stroke and slide that hits the nerve endings just so is like a stab of pure ecstasy. But angle things the wrong way, and it's like lemon juice on a paper cut.
Solution: Go slow...and I'm sorry, but--expect some pain. If you accept that this process will take time, that there will be some discomfort, some aching, and yes, some stinging along the way, but that your partner is only trying to figure out what pleases you and is doing his best to hurt you as little as possible, then the whole "introductory" time should go a lot faster. Remember, stretching the internal sphincter is the hardest part--and the most painful. Once that's done, the pain should lessen.
Once you've had anal sex a few times, you can anticipate how bad the initial pain will be, and prepare yourself for it. And--if you get off on the pain--you'll start to look forward to it; it becomes part of the thrill. But the initial pain never really goes away. You just come to know what to expect.

5. There's only one position for anal sex: doggie style.
Solution: OH HELL NO. No, no no. Any position you can have vaginal sex in, you can have anal sex; in fact, some positions are easier when you're having anal sex!

Sometimes the weight of the man on top feels amazing.

He can watch her play with herself this way.

This position gives her more control.

This picture is completely gratuitous.

Some advice:

Once a woman is ready to try (operative word being "try") something up her ass, do NOT move directly on to cock. Try a finger first, and slowly move on to two; and when she likes (not tolerates, but likes) that, move on to a narrow toy, preferably one that vibrates. Only when she feels very, very comfortable having other things up her ass should you move on to cock. It may help if you give her more control over what's in her ass in the beginning; turn it into a show.

Anal toys are not like vaginal toys. They have a wider handle at the end to prevent the toy from being sucked up the ass. If you are using a regular dildo or vibrator inside the ass, for god's sake, hang onto it tight and don't lose it up there. The last thing you need is a trip to the ER because you lost track of a sex toy somewhere up your intestine.

This is not a "vaginal or anal" scenario. You can have a toy in her ass, and your cock in her pussy; or you can have a toy in her pussy, and your cock in her ass. Or you can move your cock from her pussy to her ass, if she's lubed up enough. But--and this is a big but--DO NOT go from ass to pussy. Not with cock, and not with toys. This can lead to bacteria entering the vagina, which can cause infection. Anything that has been in the ass must be washed before it can be reintroduced to the pussy, or her poor pussy may end up feeling something like this:

When poking something into the ass for the first time, use a blunt tip. If it's a finger, don't poke it straight in; use the finger pad to press it in first. Seduce the asshole into relaxing, and opening a bit on it's own; then press your point home. You'll see the difference, and she'll feel the difference.

If the asshole constricts, do not pull out. Do not move while the asshole is constricting involuntarily. Wait, let the spasm pass, and then ask her what she would like you to do. Sometimes she will tell you to get out immediately--and sometimes she will tell you to continue. But if you try to pull out while she's all tight back there, you'll only hurt her. (Which may be the point later on, but not right now.)

Once you both get a feel for what works for both of you, you can incorporate the pain into the act itself. You can tie her up, and have fun stretching her a little faster than what she's used to; or you can cuff her down, and enter her fast from behind. The possibilities are fun and endless.

So have fun, and good luck! I hope this post was of some use to you. If there's any question still lingering, don't hesitate to contact me in the comments section or via twitter, and I'll do my best to answer it.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

1. Folsom isn't so much about the clothes--it's about the attitude. So many people, so many, were walking around completely naked except for shoes and the occasional cock ring; nobody cared. Others were walking around dressed up as ponies, or puppies, or latex dolls; some were completely covered, head to toe, in leather. Some were expressing fetishes I would have no fucking clue how to describe. How do describe something like this?

But none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that you felt great in your own skin, that you were walking around like you owned the day and didn't give a damn whatever anyone else thought.
I wore a short(ish) denim skirt and gauzy dusky-pink shirt, and when I got there, I realized I had, perhaps, dressed a tad bit too--shall we say, sophisticated? But I felt great; I was showing off my knees, which for me is a big fucking deal, and I felt sexy about it. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

2. I asked three booths if they sold tawses, and all three had no clue what I was talking about. I found this really odd. One guy actually told me he had been "doing this" for twenty years, and had never heard of a tawse--like I was making the damn thing up. What the hell?
This, my friends, is an example of a tawse:

And this is a tawse in use:

This is the specific tawse I was looking for, which I now know I will have to find online:

Is this just not an American thing? More of an European thing? The Israelis I know who are (ahem) familiar with BDSM (ahem) equipment know what a tawse is. So why didn't these guys know? I thought it was weird.

3. I learned something about myself: I enjoy kink, and I enjoy watching people of all genders, ages and sizes get topped. But none of that excites me like watching women get tied down, bent over, and hurt by men. I saw women get flogged, paddled, spanked, whipped...and it never got old. I could have watched that all day. It was yummy. Not because I wanted to hurt them--because I wanted to be them.

4. The people of The Citadel are really, really nice people. I've not been there yet, but lately, I've been talking/negotiating with Husband when we can go. Now I want to go more than ever.

5. Many of the women dressed up at Folsom were wearing corsets. I personally had never tried on a corset before, but seeing all the beautiful girls with hourglass figures walking around made me want to try one. There were a few booths selling corsets, and the first one I walked into fitting me with one that went up over the breasts.
The strapped me in--and I swear to God, I freaked out. You know that sound that comes out of your throat when you suck in your breath so sharply it sounds like a backwards scream? Yeah, that's the sound I made when she pulled those laces up in back. My reaction kind of scared her, too, and she immediately loosened it, but that wasn't the problem. I just felt totally trapped in that thing.
Husband and I have the Rule Of Ten--you have to be willing to try something out at least ten times before you can decide for sure whether you like it or not. You can't just give up on something after one or two times, because things can feel different depending on the night, the mood, the way you're wielding the new implement or using the new toy, etc. You have to really experiment with it before you can give up.
So I went to a different booth, and tried on another corset, this time one that fit under the breasts. I had the same reaction--and this time the man strapping me in didn't realize I was freaking out until I started yelling "RED! RED!" Everyone turned to look, but I was beading sweat at that point. He loosened the straps, but then left me in the damn thing while he went to help another customer. I could have killed him. Finally, another woman saw my red face and glassy eyes and took pity on me. She took the thing off and calmed me down.
I have no idea why I reacted the way I did to the corset. I'll for sure try it again--this time, explaining to the poor sales associate what my initial reaction is going to be--and hopefully, I'll be able to breath through the first few minutes and find a way to calm down. Who knows, I may just come to tolerate it. But I don't think I'll ever love it. Oh well.

6. Husband and I had negotiated beforehand what I was allowed to do at the fair (and what I was not). He knew I wouldn't engage in anything unsafe or beyond my hard limits, of course, so beyond that, he said, "have fun." He knew I was open to spanking others, and getting spanked, and he was fine with that.
Unfortunately, there was never an opportunity at the fair for me to spank anyone, and I realized too late I had let my opportunity to be spanked by someone I trust slip away. I came home with my bottom just as marked up as it had been before I left.
Husband's reaction to this surprised me. He asked me, "did anyone spank you?" and I said no; and his face fell in disappointment. Like he had been excited by the idea of someone else spanking me at the fair, and was now feeling let down because no one had. It was not the reaction I had been expecting. We had spoken about my behavior at the fair in terms of what I was allowed to do; he had not told me he wanted me to do anything. Maybe he had been too hesitant to tell me? Maybe I misread the signals? I don't know. I have to talk to him about that one.

Monday, September 26, 2011

I arrived in San Francisco early yesterday, about 9:45 AM, and took a cab from the train station to Folsom Ave. so I wouldn't have to walk it. Boy, was I sure glad I did; it started to drizzle as soon as I got there! After all the work I had done fixing my hair at home, the rain ruined it. :( Oh well.

I got a coffee at a local diner, called @winsome_gypsy, found out she and her group was still at the hotel (because duh, the fair started at 11:00 and not at 10:00 like I'd originally thought), and hung out to wait. The street was pretty empty, booths were still being set up...and the light rain was keeping people under whatever cover they could find.

Finally, around 10:30, things started to happen. Most of the booths were basically open for business, and people were starting to show up.
And then, all of a sudden, I felt like I had entered another planet.
A planet where every single fetish under the sun can come and play.
There were the ponies.

The puppies.

There were the dress-ups I had no fucking clue about.

(Yes, that's the key chain Husband bought me. I asked this guy to hold it for the picture, and he was afraid to touch it; I realized too late he was worried about where it had been, like he was afraid it was my sex toy or something. I thought it was hysterical that the guy was ballsy enough to dress like that, but cringing at the thought of holding my key chain. I think he was cringing. It was hard to tell with the mask and all.)
There were these naked dancers, doing some kind of strange modern-art dance, which frankly I did not understand AT ALL and thought quite boring after just a few minutes.

After a while, I realized something: I was fascinated by all the people/kink/fetish around me, but that wasn't what I was looking for. That wasn't what was exciting me. No, what I wanted to see was some BDSM action. I wanted to see some SPANKING.

I wanted to see some BONDAGE.

I wanted to see people propped up against a St. Andrew's Cross and worked over.

So I hung around the spanking sections for the most part, when I wasn't doing my shopping or meeting up with people.

I got some really nice stuff there. Cuffs, a new gag, a cane...I got a really cute mini-flogger for five bucks, not because I needed one, but because it was too adorable not to buy. I told the guy, it looks like two big floggers got together and bred a little baby flogger. He had a good laugh.

Some of the highlights of the day:

I found a guy with a rather unusual hebrew tattoo.

I asked him about it, and he said it's the first three letters of God's name in Kabbalah, or something funky like that. I was just kind of like, 'oh.'

Then he told me that he was aware of the fact that the tattoo could also be read as a word, Sho'ah, which in hebrew is the word for the Holocaust. But that was not how his tattoo was supposed to be read. Then he showed me how his friend has the same tattoo--like that makes it all okay.

What I wanted to say was, 'hey, whatever floats your boat, man. I mean, if you want to have a tattoo that could be read as Sho'ah (but not really, you're missing a letter in there, if you actually knew some hebrew you'd know that), then whatever, it's your skin. At least it's legible; which, when dealing with hebrew tattoos, is a crap-shoot.'

What I said was, "it's nice. Thank you very much for letting me take your picture."

The other funny thing that happened was in a store called Mr S Leather, which I visited upon recommendation. It was filled with gay men, mostly young; understandable, given the store and the day. But many of these men looked at me like I was somehow intruding on their turf just by walking in the door. Some looked at me and turned away, others looked in surprise; but a few actually sneered at me.

Inside the store, I started checking out their selection of butt plugs, because I'm always checking out butt plugs whenever I see any available (anal slut, hello).

A couple of guys came up to me; I didn't notice them right away, until one of them said to me,

"Thinking of buying one?"

Without turning around, I said, "No." Then I heard him snickering, and looked up to see him passing a smug look to his friend, as if to say, see?

I sighed, looked down at the plug, and said, "I have too many already. Besides, this one is way too small."

The shocked look on both their faces was priceless. PRICELESS.

I hope I taught them that gay men do NOT have some kind of monopoly on anal sex. Straight women enjoy it, too.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

I had not been planning on posting today, but if you caught the message added to yesterday's post, you'll know Husband's car was crashed that afternoon. And, as is bound to happen after a catastrophe like that, plans change.

Husband's car was brand new. He loved it. We are not the kind of people who get a new car every few years; we drive our cars into the ground, and only replace them when the they have to be towed away. So we don't get to enjoy that "new car feeling" very often.

Yesterday, he ran into a store to pick up a few things, and while inside, a delivery truck drove into his car and smashed it.

He called me and told me what happened.

"I'll be home late," he said. "I need to talk to the driver, and the owner of the company he's working for."

I wanted to cry for him. Husband was in full 'I need to deal with this matter' mode, thinking about paperwork, phone calls, next steps--what needed to get done. But I knew he was in despair.

He didn't call again until much later.

"I think I'll be home in a hour," he said--this time his voice was gruff. "You be ready for me."

I knew what that meant. I was about to become his whipping post.

By the time he came home, the kids were in their beds, and I was waiting for him in the bedroom, naked, and on high alert.

He didn't take off his belt as he walked in the door. I should have known things were going to go differently right then.

"Lie down over the bed," he said.

I bent my body over the edge of the bed, reaching my hands forward until I could just grasp the opposite edge.

"On your toes," he said. It was then I began to worry. Husband knows how hard it is for me to stay on my tiptoes while I'm being 'handled'; my legs begin to shake as my muscles give into the tension. But I went on my toes, as ordered, raising my ass a few inches higher.

He didn't take off his belt. He started with his bare hand, spanking me with blows that pushed me into the mattress. There was no warmup. His palm hitting my flesh again and again sounded like thunderclaps.

I started trying to pull myself over the bed. He pulled me back down by the shoulders.

"Oh no you don't," he growled, and spanked me faster.

I grabbed a pillow and shoved my face into it to muffle my crying.

And here's where the scene took a turn away from the typical, and into the land of terrible: he didn't slow down when he realized I was crying in pain. He kept going.

And then he grabbed the hair brush.

"I haven't used this for a while," he whispered. I had to hold back a sob to hear him. "I think it's time."

The hair brush is one of the worst weapons in his arsenal. It's wide, covering a large swath of skin, and it stings. It doesn't take a lot of force to cause damage. Husband thinks it's a fun little toy; I think it's the devil's invention.

Using the brush on a clear, unbruised bottom is bad enough; using it on an already-red-and-stinging bottom is unadulterated agony.

For a few minutes, I was in pure, righteous hell. After every swat of the brush, a second of shock would hit me along with the pain, like I couldn't believe how much this swat hurt after the last one. Like my mind simply couldn't take it.

And then I realized: he was not going to stop on his own. He was going to keep going, and keep going, until I safeworded.

It was only a few swats after that I safeworded, loudly.

He stopped immediately. He let me cry for a few minutes on his shoulder. But it was clear the scene was not yet done.

"Are you okay now?" He asked me when my breathing had returned to normal and the tears had stopped. "All fine?"

"I guess," I said, gingerly touching my ass.

"Okay. Then here's what I want you to do: go in the bathroom. Clean yourself out. Lube your ass up, and present yourself back over the bed. I'm going to fuck your ass, and I'm not going to be gentle about it."

His words filled me with shock and fear. I knew by "clean yourself out," he meant this:

He knows this procedure takes me time. More importantly, he knows I need a while to recover before I'm, shall we say, ready for more action.

He wasn't giving me that time. And he wasn't giving me a choice.

He saw my look of terror, the hesitation on my face, and said:

"It's either this or more of the brush. And there will be no safewording this time. I'll keep going until I feel like stopping."

I thought my heart would stop right there.

"When you say lube yourself up..."

"I'm not going to make sure you do it right. What you use is what you've got, and you'd better use enough, or it's gonna hurt."

Now, I'm an anal slut by nature. I've made that plain. But that doesn't mean I like being rammed in the ass straight on; I need some time, a gentle introduction so to speak, before the fun can really start.

"So it's either you fuck my ass hard--"

"Or the brush. What's it gonna be?"

I had to think about it; really think about it. The choice I was facing made me want to cry all over again.

"I'll be ready in a few minutes," I said. He left the room.

I can't describe to you the emotions that went through me as I prepared. There was surprise, and there was fear...but there was also this heady feeling of arousal, this knowledge that something was about to happen to me that I couldn't control and I couldn't escape and I couldn't bargain out of...that this man whom I had given absolute authority over me was about to violate me in ways he never had before...and I was so aroused I could hardly stand it. My body was running on pure adrenaline, my head rushing with it...and I loved it.

A little while later, when he came back into the room, I was presented as instructed.

"Spread," he said. I spread.

He rammed into me just as he had warned he would, fast and hard, and I shrieked so loud I was sure I'd wake up the kids. He started fucking my ass, savagely.

The initial pain and brutality of it skyrocketed me to new heights of arousal. Pain, mixed with fear, mixed pure and potent excitement...it was like nothing I'd ever felt before.

But I wasn't sure if I was allowed to come without permission.

"Please, can I--"

"Come this time," he said, grunting. I had no idea what that meant, except that I could give in to to the avalanche of pleasure about to pour over me and let it ride me out. He didn't alter his rhythm as I came, but kept going at a good pace, and it was just heaven.

But when I was done, he knew what I was thinking. After I come, I get very tight, and usually he has to finish fairly quickly or it starts to hurt me badly.

"Don't think you're going anywhere anytime soon," he said. I could hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug knowledge that he was scaring me all over again. "I'm going to take my time, and you're not going to move."

I knew better than to say anything in protest--but my limbs began to shake.

He kept pumping, and my ass grew tighter; and I knew by the sounds he was making that while he was enjoying himself, he was actively trying to hold himself back. It hurt, and I started to cry out a little, but it didn't make any difference.

And then something strange happened. I started feeling another orgasm building up; I knew it would be great, more intense than the last one, because my ass was already clenching and sore.

"I'm going to come again," I said.

"No you're not," he said from behind me. "You'll wait this time."

It was then I realized he had known, he had known, I would be coming again. He knew my body better than I did. And now he was ordering me to wait.

I tried. I tried so hard. I relaxed my muscles, focused on my breathing, and did everything I could to hold myself back. And meanwhile, he kept going, working at his own pace, moving the way he wanted to extend his own pleasure.

"Play with your clit," he said. "But don't come yet."

His words were like ice water on my already shaking flesh.

"I'll can't, or I'll come," I wailed. "Please, can't I--"

Wap!

He had grabbed the hair brush from the countertop, and brought it down on the mound of my bottom with blunt force. I yelped.

"Do it," he said. "Or I'll keep using the brush. I may use it anyway, I don't know..."

"Okay, okay," I sobbed. I felt so helpless, and afraid of my own body's reactions; but more than anything, I felt in awe of him, and adoration over his control over me.

Following his orders, I gasped by the first touch; I was so sensitive, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer.

"I'll know if you come," he warned. "Don't yet."

He rammed, and I rubbed, and my ass grew even tighter; I could hear him gasping in ecstasy. The sounds only aroused me more. I started to cry.

"Please, please, please..."

That was all I could get out, that one word. Over and over again. He said nothing to my begs for release. I could tell he was enjoying listening to me plead.

Finally, after a long time, he gave me what I needed.

"Now," was all he said. It was all he needed to say: I came with blinding light, like a firecracker going off into the sky, colors exploding behind my eyelids and jolts of pleasure racking my whole body. It didn't stop; it kept going, on and on, as he kept pumping into my ass from behind me, letting his own pleasure go at his own pace, feeling my body spasm and roil around and beneath him.

I had no idea when he was done. I was completely out of it at that point. My nerves were shot to hell, cold and dead. I was awake, but like a zombie.

I know he took care of me, because as I came back from the black cloud my mind had wandered into, I realized I was in bed, under a blanket, and he was lying next to me, holding me against his chest.

"You okay?"

It was over now. His voice was his own again, not the savage sadist's it had been before. He was watching me, looking for signs of acute subdrop, and taking care to make sure I was okay. My heart swelled with love all over again.

"Yeah. I think. Oh my god. That was intense."

"You liked it?"

He sounded worried. Like he was thinking maybe, now that it was all over, he had gone too fucking far.

"Are you kidding me? I loved it. Oh my god. That was incredible."

My words brought a huge grin to his face.

"Good to know," he said. "And you're really okay?"

"Yeah, just tired."

"Go to sleep then. I'm going to go downstairs." He kissed my forehead and got up to get dressed.

"Goodnight," I said.

He left the room.

After he left, I did go through a bit more of a subdrop; I began to feel shaky, and cold, like the numbness that had filled my mind before was now hitting my flesh.

But I felt like I could handle it. I knew, if I called Husband, he would immediately rush back and stay with me until he was sure I was 100% okay. But I didn't want him to have to do that, so I didn't call him. Instead, I went to bed.

And now I'm fine. My butt is colorful, but I'm fine. And more than ever, completely, hopelessly, utterly in love with that man.

I derive great satisfaction from being his whipping post. It makes me feel happy, proud, almost smug that I can do this service for him. But last night went beyond that.

It showed me how much he knows my body, better than I know myself. And it showed me how my willingness to give myself to him, my body, my soul, everything, only brings me to greater heights of pleasure and satisfaction.

Friday, September 23, 2011

First, some writing news: the second story for the Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore series, Samantha, is out, or should be out soon on Amazon and B&N. I think it's already showing up on B&N; Amazon typically takes longer for titles to show up on products pages, but it should be there within the next few hours.
So YAY on that! Go check it out!

Second: I've been somewhat busy this week trying to prepare for Folsom. This will be my first year going. I wanted to go last year, but one of my kids ran into a wall the day before and required stitches in his head, which kind of ruined any plans I had for the rest of the weekend. This is why I always tell people of my plans with the caveat, "unless something weird happens." Because, you know, shit happens. sometimes literally.
Really hoping something like that does NOT happen again.

I was stressing about what to wear, until I spoke to the amazing Winsome Gypsy. She calmed me down a bit, and reminded me that the point is to have fun, not stress out about my clothes. It's Folsom, not the company Christmas party. All I should be worrying about is wearing a comfortable pair of shoes. And if I decide to wear ANY clothes beyond the shoes, well, I'll already be more dressed than a whole slew of people there.

By the way, if you're planning on attending Folsom, and want to meet, send me an email. I'd love to see you there!

Edited to add, many hours later: Husband just called. Some idiot son-of-a-bitch fucking bastard piece of shit truck driver crashed into his parked car. Thank God Husband wasn't inside. I have no idea what the protocol is now, if Husband has to have the car towed to a shop, or home, if he gets a rental now, or what. And I don't know if this is going to affect my plans for Folsom. I hope not. ::sob::

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

In real life, I walk in weird circles. I have friends who are ultra-religious, who cover every inch of their skin save for hands and face, who don't even know any basic sex vocabulary. I have friends who are what society would probably call normal, meaning that while they don't appear to engage in anything overly kinky, they are at least aware of what goes on in the world and aren't completely ignorant. Then I have friends who engage in play I would consider too extreme for myself, and the only reason I know what they do is because they know...well, let's just say they know I'm not as innocent as I look.

We all have our own levels of comfort in the ways we regard sex. We all have our own definitions of kink.

I think that's great. I think, as long as everyone involved is in a comfortable place within the paradigm, then whatever kind of play they engage in should be left up to them, and not judged in any way. They should feel comfortable doing their own thing, having fun, and going at whatever pace they want. I certainly don't want to be judged for what Husband and I choose to do; I try as much as I can not to judge others. (Of course I do judge; I'm human. Humans judge others. But I try not to.)

This is why I am sometimes taken aback when I get an email asking advice, or guidance, or just some basic information, and the letter takes an apologetic tone. Like they are sorry they don't know the answer to their question already, or feel bad for feeling squicky about trying something new, or embarrassed they aren't as "kinky" as others (like me, I guess).

So, to those people, I want to say:

STOP APOLOGIZING. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS NOT BEING "KINKY" ENOUGH. AND STOP GIVING A DAMN WHAT I AND OTHERS THINK. PLEASE.

You think I'm kinky? Believe me, I am pure ultra-fine vanilla compared to others out there. Kink is a relative term--and if you think you've found the absolute extreme edge of kinkiness, let me tell you, you have not. No matter how extreme you think someone is, there is always going to be someone else out there pushing the boundary lines even further. Because there are no boundary lines with kink, beyond those of consent.

So if you and your partner are happy with where you are, if you feel like your needs are being met and your opinions are being respected, then don't feel like you have to push beyond what you want or what you're ready for, simply because you have to fit someone else's label or definition of "kink." The only people whose opinions should matter are yours and your partner(s). That's it.

You know what does bother me, though? People who purposefully keep themselves ignorant, and yet still judge. If you're not going to watch t.v. because it's "unwholesome," if you're not going to go online because it's a "pit of bad influence," if you're not going to expose yourself to anything new because you equate being informed with being corrupted, then stop spouting off your ridiculous opinions on me like it's God's holy truth and shut the fuck up. You're not being uplifted because of your ignorance. You're just being stupid.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Like most moms, I put "taking care of the family" higher up on the priority list than "taking care of myself."
The kids get their routine, and non-routine, pediatric, dentist, orthodontist, audiologist, ophthalmologist, therapist (speech and occupational), and any other -ist or -ician visit on time and when needed. Husband takes care of his own visits, and schedules them as necessary.

Me, not so much.

Husband and I share many of the same services. We now have the same PCP, ophthalmologist, and dentist. In fact, now that I think about it, our whole family sees many of the same care-givers.
So when Husband went to the dentist a couple weeks ago, the office manager-slash secretary-slash gossip gatherer-slash appointment maker-slash friend, P, took it upon herself to let Husband know exactly how long it had been since I'd been in for a teeth cleaning.

"It's been two years," she said. "Your wife hasn't gotten a cleaning in two years. This is bad. Very bad. She needs to take care of her teeth. She brings the kids in like clockwork, but she doesn't make an appointment for herself." And then, from what I understand, she said the words that spelled out my doom:"You are not making sure she takes care of herself."

I know, I know, she did not mean to censure him, and she certainly did not mean to get me into trouble. But instead of going on to work after his visit, Husband came home, found me upstairs on the computer, and immediately took off his belt.

"Against the bed," he said. "Now."
"What--what did I do? What's going on?" To say I was alarmed would be an understatement.
"The dentist's office just told me you haven't had a cleaning in two years. Two years. Since 2009."
Had it really been that long?
"It can't be two years already...They just called me to remind me to make an appointment--"
"Lady [He calls me Lady when he is particularly displeased with me] that was nine months ago. You were too busy for nine months to get your teeth checked out? No, I don't want you bent over like that. Take off your pants."
I pulled off my pants, trembling at this point. There had been no time for me to take in what he was saying, no time to tell him how embarrassed I felt for letting that much time go by, and no time to try to diffuse some of his anger.

The first blow of the belt cut right across both ass cheeks and whipped into my hip. It was clear, there would be no warm-up.

He got a good seven licks in before he finally began to tell me where his anger was really stemming from.
"You can get (smack!) an infection (smack!) by not taking care (smack!) of your gums. You can (smack!) lose your teeth (smack!). She asked me (smack!) why I don't (smack!) make sure (smack!) you take care (smack!) of yourself! (SMACK!)"

And then I realized: his anger was so great because it was laced with a heavy dose of guilt. The way he saw it, and has always seen it, part of his responsibility as my Dom is to take care of me, and part of his responsibility is to make sure I take care of myself. P, without realizing it, had implied he had failed in his duties as my Dom. And the reason why he was so upset was because he felt she was right.

"I'm sorry!" I wailed between licks of the belt. "I didn't realize how much time it was!" He ignored my pleas for understanding. The belt burned into my skin. I started to kick up my heels, and he simply aimed around my bobbing hips.
"I'm sorry!"I repeated. He swung the belt harder, and this time, he made sure the tip of the belt hit the same spot on my right cheek no less than three times. The pain was unbelievable. "I'll MAKE AN APPOINTMENT!" I screeched.

"Right now," he growled, finally standing up straight to weave the belt back into his pants. "Right now. I'm gonna listen to you do it. Go get the phone."
"Can I put some pants on first?"
"RIGHT NOW!"

So I grabbed the phone, called the dentist, and made myself an appointment for their first opening, which happened to be today. I did it sans pants. Of course they didn't know that, thank God. They also didn't know my poor bottom was welting, and taking on a color very similar to overripe strawberries.

Can I get myself into trouble by misbehaving, and warrant myself a good punishment? Yes, absolutely. And Husband punishes me particularly severely when he thinks he's been lax in his duties as my Dom. But that's NOTHING compared to what I have to go through when someone else implies He's been derelict in his duties.

Those are the times when I can't sit comfortably for three days.
This whole post? I wrote it with my laptop on the kitchen counter. I was standing up.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Somewhat ironically after yesterday's post, my doctor's office called me this morning to let me know I'm due for a blood test.
I did it, it's done, I'm alive...not in a good head space, but getting past it. Putting some distance between me and this morning.
I get very ashamed of my fear. I know it's ridiculous a woman my age being so afraid of needles. I also know there's very little I can do about it. And I get furious when medical personnel don't take me seriously.
"Oh, no one likes needles," they say, brushing me off.
Bitch, that's not what I said. I didn't say I don't like needles. I said I have a fucking PHOBIA. I said I will FREAK THE FUCK OUT. Now go get a hot pack for me to put on my hand, because these veins WILL collapse if you don't, and I'm not going to let you stick me three times cause you can't open your fucking ears and LISTEN TO ME.
Also? BITCH.

I am clearly not in a good mind-set for posting. So I will leave you with pictures of Andy Whitfield, star of Spartacus, who passed away on Sunday of non-hodgkins lymphoma. He was a husband, father, and all around good guy. He will be missed.

Monday, September 12, 2011

The other day, N, a classmate and friend of my oldest son, called my house very angry, demanding to talk to him immediately. Oldest son took the phone downstairs, and while I couldn't make out any of the conversation, I could hear the unmistakable tone of my son's voice: first surprised, then defensive. When he came back upstairs, I asked him what had happened.
"I took N's book, and N was mad," he said.
"How did you get N's book? And why?" I asked.
"I took it from the classroom. I couldn't find mine, and N wasn't there, so M [another mutual classmate and friend] told me to take N's book and he would let N know I had it."
"Wait, let me get this straight. You were in the classroom, and you couldn't find your book."
"Yes."
"So M told you to take N's."
"Yes."
"And you did."
"Yes. I don't know why N is so mad. M told him I had his book; it's not like I stole it."
"Well, see, you kinda did steal it. Just because M told you it would be okay to take it doesn't make it okay."
He seemed very confused by this, and frankly, I was taken aback by his confusion. "Listen kiddo, if M told you it would be okay to hit N in the face, kick him in the balls, would that make it okay?"
"Well, no..."
"And if M told you it would be okay to poison N's food with bleach, would that make it okay then?"
"Of course not," he laughed nervously.
"M told you to take someone else's book without asking. Tell me, is taking something that doesn't belong to you usually okay?"
"No."
"So why was it okay after M told you it would be okay? How did M giving you permission to do it make it okay? Guess what: it didn't. You owe N an apology, and I'll drive you over there to give him his book back."
My son was embarrassed, and felt humiliated by having to apologize (all teenage boys hate to admit they're wrong, I think), but he learned the lesson.

When Husband and I began to understand years ago what we had was a BDSM relationship, a D/D lifestyle, we started using the terminology--words like boundaries and limits, soft and hard. And what I realized is that, for us, a hard limit can be defined as anything that you would not do because to you, it is simply not okay. It would not matter how many times someone else told you it would be okay, or under what circumstances it might be made okay; you would not do it, period. THE END.

One of our boundaries is, obviously, cheating. I would never cheat on Husband. This is not because I don't think I could get away with it, and not because I know how much it would hurt him; it is because I would not be able to live in my own skin if I did that. And it wouldn't matter if Husband asked me to have a threesome with him, or have sex with another man (or woman) while he watched; it wouldn't matter how much he wanted me to cheat. I would not do it. Period. (In this regard, our boundaries are completely compatible, because I know this is a hard limit for him, too.)

Another one of my hard limits is needles. When I was a little girl, I was run over by a drunk driver, and in the hospital for months. I had to regain the use of my leg; I had to learn how to walk again. I came away from that whole trauma with a severe phobia of needles. This has had a severely negative effect on my life; I went through natural childbirth twice, not because I have anything against medicine during birth, but because I didn't want any needles. Husband knows if I ever become diabetic, I might let myself die rather than face the prospect of sticking myself with needles everyday. It is a problem.

So (needless to say...pun intended) it wouldn't matter how many times he begged me to let him stick me with needles, or let someone else stick me while he watched; I would not let him do it. It's a hard limit for me. End of story.

The way I see it is, anything that can be discussed, anything that can be negotiated, is a soft limit. Sometimes it can be worked through, and sometimes not; sometimes it's a matter of finding the right person to stretch or break the limit with. And sometimes, these things just take time, and a chance to work things out with the right person.

But hard limits cannot be negotiated, or bargained, or most of time, even "tested." And it doesn't really matter if the Dom/Top understands the reasons behind the hard limit, or accepts it as reasonable. He has to take it as is, respect it, and hold to it. And if he doesn't think he can do that, the only other choice he has is to walk away.

Posts might be sporadic for a while. I'm trying to finish up a Bentmoore story, and need to devote my time and energy to that. I'll do the best I can juggling both the story and the blog.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Maybe it's just me, but when I think of Sadism/Masochism, I think of physical pain. I think of chains, whips, floggers, clamps, and a big 'ole St. Andrew's Cross. I think of welts, bruises, and sometimes, blood.

But that's just the physical. There's a whole other facet to BDSM: the psychological. The emotional. What's going on in the sub's (and Dom's) head, especially during a scene, to set the perimeters of what's to come. Really, how the Dom uses psychological means to further dominate his sub.

That's why I wish we could add two more letters to that Acronym, something to the effect of:
H humiliation
A adulation

Humiliation would include actions and words that embarrass, demean, and subjugate the sub. Things that serve to "put her in her place." It would also include demands and demonstrations that further enforce her lower status, things she would obviously not normally agree to do.
Adulation would include anything that makes the sub feel cherished, "worthy" of her Dom and anything he requires her to submit to.

I get the feeling a lot of Doms get off on the humiliation techniques. In BDSM fiction, it's everywhere. Scenes filled with women being forced to eat from dog bowls, pee on the floor and then clean it up (usually naked), go to a public place and degrade herself somehow...and the thing is, a lot of women really get off on it. They love to read about subs getting mentally kicked to the curb. In real life, these women often enjoy being called slut, or whore, and forced to do things that will remind them of their lower status. It really creams their panties.

The flip side would be the Dom who brings the sub up, who wants her to submit to his requirements because those demands are for her own good. It's words of approval, of adoration, and merit; it's the expectation that the sub will obey beautifully, pleasure wholly, and submit completely, because she is capable of nothing less.

Husband definitely uses the Adulation technique with me much more often than humiliation. He tells me how beautiful I am, how proud he is to be my Husband, how he's the luckiest man in the world. When he calls me a slut, he uses it like a term of endearment: "I am so lucky to have a slutty wife like you." I know Molly's husband calls her "Slutmine," and I think it's beautiful; I'm sure she thinks so, too.

But when I feel humiliated, I get angry. It's not a turn-on for me; it's the exact opposite. Sometimes I think one of the main reasons I am a Smart-Assed Masochist wife is because I find it very humiliating to have to ask for a spanking or a punishment. I'd much rather mouth-off, and give Husband a reason to punish me, than treat it like he's doing me a favor I need to beg for, like a child begging for candy.

Sometimes, he uses humiliation just to raise my level of defiance, to make a scene last longer. It always works, because I hate to give in. I see his demand of a demonstration of my submission as too much--even if's the utterance of a single word. In these cases, context is everything; and that man really knows how to push my buttons.

Of course, after being married for fifteen years, he also knows when I know he's setting me up for a show of defiance just to liven things up, and when he's crossed the line and hurt me emotionally. Then he knows he has to work fast, cause I don't just get mad, I get even.

I realize a lot of people will not agree with things I've said here. I also know some people look at the relationship I have with Husband and think we're somehow doing it "wrong." If our techniques don't work for you, if they're not the same techniques you use to keep you and your partner happy, then that's fine. There are a lot of ranges and extremes out there. And if there's one thing I've learned about BDSM, there's always more fun stuff to try.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Very easy definition, no?
In a Domestic Discipline lifestyle, that definition is so generalized and simplified, it's rendered almost meaningless.

Husband is my Dom. He has authority over me. Certainly, when we are in the bedroom, he has control over me.
But in many ways, I have control over him, too. I can make his life easy--or I can make his life hard. I can submit quickly, or...not. I can be fun, experimental, enthusiastic, and kind, or I can just go through the motions of being a "good" wife without really putting any effort into what that means. And the differences between the two are striking.

This is what domination means for us, and while I can only talk for us, I think it's basically true in any BDSM relationship: it means having authority over someone that you would otherwise think of as an equal. It means being granted control over the other person's behaviors for whatever time and extent has been agreed upon, but once that time is up, the two of you stand on equal ground again.

There is no inherent superiority involved.

This, in my humble opinion, is a very important distinction. There is a difference between a Dom who believes a sub's submission is a power to be taken when offered, a privilege, something he must care for and return when it's time, and a "Dom" who thinks submission is is his right to take whenever he wants, like an apple fallen off the tree, on the grounds of his natural superiority.

One is a good Dom, or at least holds the potential to be one; the other is just a misogynistic asshole. Unfortunately, there are a lot of misogynistic assholes out there posing as "Doms."

A Dom will be a gentleman. A Dom will look you in the eyes, shake your hand, and greet you respectfully. A Dom will send polite emails when corresponding. A Dom will listen to what you have to say, accept what is important to you as important to him, too (no matter what your reasoning for it), and hold your thoughts and feelings and opinions dear. A Dom will make no assumptions, because he knows he has no right to.

A misogynistic asshole posing as a Dom will, very quickly, show his crassness and insensitivity. He might send you a message saying something to the effect of, "hey baby, want me to tie you up and fuck your face?" Just to see the kind of reaction he gets. He will not care about your desires, or your limits, because all he considers are his own. To him, his wants are always going to be more important than yours, because in his mind, the two of you are not equal.

Subs who are prone to low self-esteem should especially be wary of these kinds of "Doms." It is the job of the Dom to bring the sub up, not kick her further down. One sign of a good Dom is a sub who believes, with all her heart, she is becoming a better person through his help and guidance.

This is why I firmly believe Domestic Discipline should never include coercion, or belittlement, or any kind of mental cruelty that makes one person feel less than the other. Because that's not discipline anymore: that's just simple malevolence, and doesn't belong in any relationship, kinky or otherwise.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Since I spent a couple posts writing about the Playful Sadistic Dom, I thought I'd touch on the flip side of that coin, the Playful SAM. Because I don't want anyone out there thinking the submissive wife is the only one who gets messed with now and then--oh, no. At least, not in this house.

I've said before, Husband is the authority figure in the house. He has veto power over just about everything. But when it comes to the running of the house and the everyday kids stuff, he rarely uses his veto power to go against me, because 99% of the time, he leaves that stuff to me.

Of that 1%, when he does he put his foot down and counters my decision or objects to my behavior, a significant majority of the time, I give in. This is not because I'm afraid to argue with him (NO) or because I feel too "beat down" to raise my voice (HELL NO). It's because, as I listen to his reasoning, I realize he is right.

Which leaves a tiny number of times when he objects to my way of thinking or doing something, and I think he is flat out wrong for going against my opinion/decision. When that happens...sparks fly around here.

(Before you start imagining scenes from COPS, officers called in to break up a domestic dispute where they walk in on a food fight in progress between husband and wife both coated in thrown eggs and flour and the husband yelling "she took mah remote! Hor!" And the wife screaming back "mah momma gave us that thar tee vee ya son of a beech!" And the cops trying very hard to break it up just so they don't have to arrest anybody and thereby touch them, let me tell you, we do NOT get all crazy when we argue. We raise our voices, but we do not scream. We do not swear. We do not lose control. We act like two adult who love each other having a difference of opinion.)

I am a sub, but I am NOT a doormat. There is a line separating the two, and woe betide Husband when he crosses it. He knows he is in trouble, because I don't just stay mad: I get vengeful. But a vengeful SAM is also a playful one.

Here are some of the ways I have gotten "playful" with Husband in the past:

I have sewn flowers, hearts, swirls, and even messages into his clothes. One time I took his favorite pair of pants and crocheted "I like ponies" into them. In pink. Another time I took his last pair of "weekend" pants--you know, the pants you wear just on the weekends cause they're all stained and ripped and you like 'em like that--and sewed yellow flowers all over them, even the butt. He had to wear them on a run to the supermarket. As my son would say, it was epic.

I've sewn shut all the fly openings in his boxer shorts. I mean every single damn pair. So every time he went pee, he thought of me.

I've taken all the blades out of his electric razor, so it takes him a while to figure out why "the fucking thing's not working" why there's still stubble on his face.

I've moved his phone. Keyword being moved, not hidden. It was still in plain sight. Just not where he left it. And again. And again.

I've dyed his socks pink. "By accident," of course. I kinda "forgot" that brand new shirt I just bought might bleed into the wash, and yes, all his socks did need washing, all at the same time.

I've taken all the towels out of the bathroom...while he was in the shower. Oh, and the soap. And shampoo.

I've polished his toe nails while he slept. A nice shiny silver color, too. I've never worn that polish on myself, though--too sparkly.

I've moved all the cards around his wallet (and if you're anything like Husband, you have every damn credit card in its rightful spot, and freak out should a single card move places).

I've taken one shoe of a pair, and put away in the closet. But just one. Cause if one shoe's sitting in the corner of the room, the other one's got to be around there somewhere, right? I mean, why would one be sitting out there and one be somewhere else? I wonder!

I've sprayed my perfume on his shirts, so he smells all nice and, according to Victoria's Secret, Divine.

Those are the ones I can think of right now, off the fly, but I'm sure there are more. Nothing dangerous, nothing too mean, nothing involving the kids...just little reminders of how I typically make his life better--and how I can make his life hard.

When I start getting playful, he knows he's in trouble. He knows he's hurt me, badly, and needs to make amends. He also knows until he does, he may just be walking around with pink socks and sewn-shut boxer shorts.

We always do make up, in the end. But he remembers: a SAM wife has ways of getting even, too.

Monday, September 5, 2011

(Warning: no kink here today. Just writing stuff. You want kink? Go look at some pictures.)

So as some of you are aware, the first story of the Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore series, Michelle, is out on Amazon and B&N. Samantha has already been sent to my formatter, and should be available soon.

Here's the thing: once a story has been through formatting, there's really no way for me to make changes to it. Formatting involves a lot of html code, of which I know nothing, which is why I pay for someone else to format them, so they can look all pretty and shiny for the people who buy them. Which means that all of my editing has to be done before I send them to my formatter, or I am screwed.

This is why I almost never look at one of my stories once it's available for purchase. Because if I find a mistake, there's nothing I can do about it, save for taking it down, making the changes, asking Rob to reformat the whole damn thing, and putting it up again. I'm better off doing my best to make sure the story is polished and ready to go before I give it to him the first time, so it's the only time.

But I broke my own rule yesterday. I read Michelle on my Kindle, the same version as what's available on Amazon.
I found three grammatical errors and two places where I used the same phrase twice on one page before I stopped reading.
These mistakes kill me. Kill me. I hate them. I wish I could go back in time and just squash them out. I couldn't sleep because of those damn mistakes I found.

I know I'm only human. When I edit, I can only fix the mistakes I see. And I can re-read a story twenty times over (and I do), and I'll still miss some obvious mistakes.
What I need to do is get me some beta readers.

If you look up top on the pages bar, you'll see I added a box labeled "contests/requests." Click on that, and take a look at what I'm looking for and what prizes you can win. One of the things I'm going to ask for is beta readers. Because from now on, I don't want to have to worry about reading my own damn story and finding a single fucking grammatical error.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Husband had not given me a good proper punishment in a while. The toll was beginning to show.

Things had been crazy at work, I was slipping in my duties, and I could tell he needed an outlet for his stress. A whipping post, if you will.

He didn't technically need to justify a good whipping. He could have simply told me to lean over the bed and brace, and I would have complied and taken it. But he didn't want a light spanking out of me; he wanted to hear me scream. He wanted tears. And what kind of husband would want to make his wife scream and cry?

That morning, I let him sleep in, thinking I was doing him a favor.
"Why did you let me sleep for so long?" He demanded, coming down the stairs. "It's late."
"I thought you'd appreciate the sleep?" I asked. He looked at me, clenching his jaw. Not a good sign.
"Did you make coffee?"
"Not yet."
He shook his head in disappointment, and I suddenly felt very nervous. It was his "woman needs to learn a lesson" head-shake.
I quickly got up and made coffee. We both drank it, him looking thoughtful, me studying his expressions, trying to anticipate his next move. He disappeared upstairs for a moment, and when he came back down, his eyes filled me with foreboding.
"Get ready to go," he announced. "Be ready in twenty minutes."
Now I knew he was up to something. "I can't be ready in twenty minutes," I said. "I can be ready in thirty." Thirty was pushing it, but doable.
"Be ready in twenty, or pay for every minute you're not ready," he growled. Realizing the smartest move at that point would be to shut my mouth and follow orders, I ran upstairs to comply.
But I soon began to panic when I couldn't find my pants. I was doing laundry that day, and all my other pants were downstairs in the laundry area; but I had left my last pair of pants on the chair where I could find them.
Now they were gone.
With only a few minutes of time remaining, Husband began to call up, "you almost ready to go?"
I frantically began to look for my pants. Not in the drawers, not in the closet, not in the hamper...and then I noticed Husband had made the bed. He never makes the bed, especially not first thing in the morning.
I lifted up the blankets, and...there were my pants.
He had hidden them, under the blankets. To make me late. On purpose.
I was on to him now, but I didn't say anything about his little stunt when I came down the stairs. Anything I would have said would only have been construed as mouthing-off. Another justification for a punishment.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Are you questioning me now?" He asked with raised brows. This was really, really bad. I was walking on eggshells at this point.
"I...I'm just curious...."
"The mall. You said the other day the kids need clothes."
"Yes..."
"Well, I'm going to be nice and help you shop. So appreciate my help."
"Thank you?"
Another shake of the head; my dubious offer of thanks had not been good enough. The sadistic light in his eyes began to turn into a shining gleam.
"You are not being good today, are you? Too bad. Too bad," he said. "Try to behave in the mall."

The rest of the morning was a series of "misbehaviors" and "naughty looks" on my part. Every little thing he could take as an infraction, he did.
By the end, it got somewhat comical. Walking too far ahead? Bad. Walking too far behind? Bad. Taking too long to look at some shoes? Very, very bad. Making a juvenile noise with a straw from a smoothie cup? Oh, naughty, naughty. That one probably got me another five swats right there.

Let's be clear: I knew what he was up to. I knew he was going to hurt me later on because of my so-called "attitude." And I could have protested. Had I protested, we probably would've ended up having a serious discussion, and I would have made him feel pretty damn guilty.
But I didn't protest, because I knew he needed me to absorb some of his stress, and I didn't mind. I wanted him to. If this was the only way he could justify his own actions in his own head, I was willing to play along.

So I began to mouth-off on purpose.
"Oh, look at that," I said, eyeing some hair-product in a salon window. "You should really get that, dear. Your hair is starting to thin on top, you know."
He gave me a thin-lipped grin. He knew I was being smart-assed on purpose--now he was free to plan his torturous punishment without guilt.
"Oh, look, it smells all citrusy," I continued. "You should by it. You don't mind smelling girly, do you?"
That was it.
"Wait till we get home," he whispered, smiling an evil smile. "Just wait till we get home."
"We'll see," I said, further goading him.
"Oh, yes. Yes, you will."

The evening continued, I kept up my naughty behavior, and he kept making mental checkmarks on his list of infractions. But it was a game now, to both of us. One that I would lose, of course. There could be only one winner, Him, and that had been taken for granted from the beginning.

My punishment was awful that night. I cried, and he had to gag me so I wouldn't wake the kids with my screams. The lash-marks lasted three days.
But, as usual, I wore them with pride.
On the face of it, he won the game. But if you're in a BDSM relationship, you know there are no real "losers" in these things. He got to dominate me and hurt me...and I got to be dominated and hurt. In the end, we both won.
I love that man.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

If you've read any part of this blog, you know Husband is something of a Sadist.

Not all Doms are Sadists. Doms like to be in control, they like to be the figure of authority and power in the relationship, but not all of them like inflicting pain on their sub. Some just expect the sub to submit quickly and quietly, and if the sub doesn't, there's a discussion about it. If some type of punishment is called for, it may involve loss of privileges, maybe even some humiliation, but not necessarily pain. Some Doms will inflict pain to make their subs happy, but they themselves don't get off on it in any way.

(By the way, not all Sadists are Doms. Some just like a chance to inflict pain on others, but they don't need a reason or excuse to do it, and they're certainly not looking to have any real authority over the other person for any length of time, except during the play session. They are topping the other person, not adopting a Dom role.)

But most Doms, I think, enjoy at least a little bit of sadism in their relationships. In fact, I think most men in general get off on it. That's why they enjoy watching women getting spanked, slapped, pinched, grabbed, and overall treated like charged sex toys. The difference is that most men will feel guilty about their sadistic pleasures, while a Dom will accept it and use it to satisfy both himself and his sub.

Husband is a sadist, but it took a while for me to draw most of his full potential out of him. In the beginning, he simply controlled me, but there weren't enough effective ways to enforce his authority over my actions. Also, I was coming to realize how much I enjoyed being trussed up, spanked, paddled, and belted, just for the fun of it, but Husband was too afraid to indulge me too fast. Like all men, he had been raised with the belief that hurting women is wrong, 100% of the time and no exceptions. I had my misguided notions he had to work through, but he had some, too. He had to deal with the guilt.

All Sadists have to deal with guilt, usually on an ongoing basis, at least to some degree--but I think that's a good thing. It means no matter how far the scenes go, he is still controlling his actions and making sure things don't cross boundary lines. It means he's planning things out in advance to ensure both people leave the session happy. It means he cares.

But guilt can also get in the way of the fun stuff, and twist the Dom up in really weird ways. Sometimes, if he wants to try some new method of pain or has a craving for a long painful scene, it might mean he will play his own little head game both with himself, and with his sub, to get around the guilt and justify what he wants to do (or in our case about to do) to his sub.

A guilty Dom can sometimes lead to a playful Dom, but all that means is he's already rigged the game so he wins and you fail--and failure means pain. He wants a reason to hurt you, and so by God he will make up the reasons himself if he has to. He will make sure you've been a naughty little sub and deserve the punishment he's been looking forward to giving you.

Playful Doms are a dangerous breed. Subs need to be very, very wary around playful sadistic Doms: follow orders, do them fast, and don't ever, ever, mouth off. Because the rules change fast, and the punishments are swift.